The Hollower (27 page)

“What the—?” The curve of Erik’s crowbar separated into teeth, the shiny silver body drawing back to strike. He ripped it from his pants and threw it away. It, too, turned to dust upon impact with the floor.

For several moments, no one spoke. Then Erik said, “Well, then. Guess we won’t be needing those.”

“Oh, fuck.” That came from Sean. The others turned in his direction when he said it—surprised, Dave supposed, at how grown-up words sounded in such a small voice. Sean was looking up, and they followed his gaze.

Dave felt his chest hitch.

The Hollower stood right there among them, solemn and unmoving. Its gloves lay folded in front of it, frosted black clothes nearly blending into the background. Only its head stood out, pale like a full moon hanging in the night air of the basement.

Dave had never seen it so close before. From where he stood, he could see the blank slate of a face that was not as empty as it appeared. Countless tiny fractal threads in the white seemed quite capable of expression, subtle suggestion, even question. The slightest movements of the threads changed everything.

It regarded them then, unperturbed by their number, the threads rustling slightly and giving the impression of watchfulness.

DeMarco drew her gun.

It tilted its head in her direction. Its real voice, layered with female and male strains and unpleasantly musical, surrounded them. There was venom in the deadly flicker of it in their ears. “
You can’t hurt me with that. You know that
.” It shook its head. “
Guns hurt people
.”

DeMarco’s gun held steady—so steady, Dave thought, that only someone who was really looking would have noticed how much effort DeMarco put forth to keep it from shaking.

“
People like Bennie
.”

“Bastard,” DeMarco said, and fired. There was a
gunshot that made the others flinch, but instead of a bullet, the gun dribbled blood from its muzzle that pattered on the floor.

Sally crouched down and splashed her fingers in it.

“Don’t,” Dave said, swooping down and pulling her to her feet.

She laughed, reaching behind him. He half turned to see what she was doing. She grabbed Feinstein’s mirror from him and with the blood on her fingers, thumbed two dots and a crooked swiggle like a drunken happy face on the glass surface.

What had Max said? “
Think what it’s for, what it shows people, and you’ll know
.” Sally understood somehow. She knew.

The ripple in the layers of the Hollower’s head conveyed confusion at first, then anger, and then something Dave thought looked very much like dread.

Sally stepped around DeMarco and held the mirror up to the Hollower, and it growled. The sound filled the basement, vibrating the concrete beneath their feet. Sean covered his ears.

A sharp turn of its head toward DeMarco’s gun caused it to fire again. The bullet tore through the back of the mirror, shattering the glass. DeMarco looked thrown by the suddenness of it, and fought to reclaim control of her weapon.

Unperturbed, Sally dropped the mirror frame, and bent to pick up a shard of glass. Dave stepped up to stop her, but Erik grabbed his arm. Dave was about to say something to him, to pull free and take the glass from his sister before she cut herself. But then Sally lunged forward, a blond blur, lashing out at the luminous pale canvas in front of her.

The Hollower staggered back. The thin horizontal black slice she’d made across the bottom half of its head quivered. With a wet ripping sound, the faceless expanse started to dissolve in places. That’s how it looked to Dave, like some kind of acid was eating through from the inside. Cheryl cried out. DeMarco put a protective arm across Sean’s chest. The slice pulled apart to a jagged tear. The Hollower groaned like a metal door. The sound came from the slack, gaping mouth. It stretched, elongating into a scream. Punctures in the top hemisphere puckered and then sank into empty sockets. Other fainter rips and tears delineated nose, ears, cheeks. Its mouth stretched open in a wail, its sockets pinched into a scowl. The whiteness of its face fought to fill those rips in, to seal them up and smooth them over. Its head became a tumult of movement.

Its body changed, too. It expanded upward, straining at the fibers of the trench coat. Dave thought it was reclaiming its real shape—its home-world shape. It towered over them, filling up most of the space at the base of the basement stairs.

DeMarco ushered Cheryl and Sean behind her. Erik gaped at the monster that was quite literally unfolding and expanding beneath its trench coat before them.

Dave’s gaze slid from the Hollower to the staircase. There was a little room there at the base stair, and the change would give them enough time to run for it.

The Hollower shot up by about two feet and threw off the trench coat. Its body swept up behind its head and then curved down like a grotesque swan to pale white stumps of thighs split four ways. From these,
it rested on two pairs of long, lean scissor blades. Great discs of bone slid in and out of the curve of its back. Along the sides of its ribs, whips of segmented bony spikes dangled like chains. They rose up with indignant flips every time it wrenched its body. The whips braided into arms and it tore off layer after layer of its face-in-flux until it reached a pure, unbroken white.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Erik muttered.

Cheryl covered her mouth.

Dave was so in awe of it—so horrified, but if truth be told, fascinated, too—that the comparison of Sally’s small stature to the massive bulk of the thing took several moments to register. It drew whips above her head.

“Sally!’ He made a move to grab her. The Hollower buried a whip into the cement floor by her feet. Another reached behind her and pulverized the floor between him and his sister. He stopped short and gazed up at the Hollower.

Something was different. Beyond the obvious changes to its appearance, something else was different. It looked less a superimposed thing, devoid of color and size and seams that matched this world. This version of it was solid, physical in a way it hadn’t been even minutes before.

Dave stepped back. “Anita, try your gun now.”

DeMarco gave him a funny look. “Won’t work, Dave. You saw—”

“Try it now. It’s changed. I think you can shoot it.”

The detective regarded him for a few moments, seeming to consider what he said. She turned her attention back to the Hollower, studied it a moment, then raised her gun and fired over Sally’s head.

This time, she fired bullets. The first grazed a disc of bone with a metallic ping and was redirected to a place in the ceiling. The second, though, hit the Hollower dead in the chest in a dusty spray of white. It roared, turning on DeMarco. What looked like a dark burn hole bore out a chunk of its body straight through between two swimming blades. But after a moment, the hole sealed, leaving an ashy black smudge where the bullet had passed through.

It tried to smack the gun out of her hand with a whip. She held firm, but when it disengaged from her wrist, a barb took a small chunk of skin off the back of her hand. DeMarco yelped in pain.

She fired again, this time at its head. The bullet burrowed like a burning ember through where its right eye should have been, and its body trembled in pain and rage.

“Run,” Dave said. When no one moved, he shouted, “Run!”

He grabbed Sally’s arm and tugged her away from the Hollower and toward the stairs. The others followed his lead, dodging angry whips as they slipped past it. One connected with Erik’s arm and tore out a small chunk of his triceps. He bit his lip and slapped a hand over the wound. Dave saw the blood dribbling from between his fingers as he shepherded Erik and the others up the stairs. The Hollower’s raging bellows below spurred them on. At the top, DeMarco threw open the door.

Instead of spilling out onto the first floor of Feinstein’s house, they found themselves in an enormous backyard. They stopped on a shiny black marble patio that spanned about twenty by forty feet. Beyond it was another thirty to thirty-five feet of lawn. To their
left, resting on the marble titles, was an obsidian oblong that vaguely resembled a bench, and another oblong on four small blocks that might have been a table.
Or an altar
, Dave thought,
and a high seat
. Small curlicue carvings made complex patterns across the shiny top surface of the table-altar. Laid out across the symbols were metallic instruments—tools, maybe, or utensils—formed into shapes not meant for human hands or human uses.

A ragged picket fence about eight feet high, its posts leaning at odd angles like a drunken lineup, fenced them in on three sides, while the house sealed them off from behind. There was no gate that Dave could see, but the odd tilt of the posts left gaps wide enough for a head. Beyond, as far as he could tell, there were nebulous clouds of silvery dust in an expanse of blue black. The same continued above them. Occasional massive chunks of silver- and green-veined marble hammered into odd geometric shapes blocked out the view as they drifted by.

Before them, the blades of grass grew long and sharp, dusted with a frost that glinted silver in the light of unseen moons. The grass writhed with movement. To Dave, it looked like fat drops of black ink surging up from the grass, separating and pooling together. In the center of the yard, the ink spidered small streams all over what Dave thought at first was a large doll in a pink-flowered bathing suit, lying on its back. The black oozed over the entire expanse of its head and covered it. The force of the inky drops rocked the little figure. He squinted and leaned in, and realized that what he mistook for a crack in the porcelain hand was actually a line of dried blood. The ink worked over part of the chest,
separating, melding together, threading outward, and the chest finally caved. They devoured the cloth and skin around it and from inside the chest cavity, and gold coils sprang out and dissipated like smoke in the air.

Erik gazed upward, shaking the excess blood off his hand and curling up the corner of his T-shirt to press against the wound. “What the hell is this place?”

“Home,” Sally muttered inside a breath. “Both and neither. The topsy-turvy. The underside of night.”

“I think the Hollower leaked into Feinstein’s backyard,” DeMarco said. She followed with a small laugh, but she looked pale. The gun hung limp at her side.

“What do we do now?” Sean took Cheryl’s hand. They both looked solemn, tired, their lips dry and their eyes unblinking as they fixed on the figure in the center of the yard. “I don’t think we can cross through the grass.”

“Let’s see.” Dave grabbed one of the strange instruments from the table and tossed it onto the lawn.

It made a light thump in the grass where it landed. Immediately, the black inky mass paused, as if a collective consciousness noticed something new on its territory, and the black drew away from the figure and surged forward toward the tool, washing over it completely.

Cheryl cried out. The figure (Dave could see what they saw, that it wasn’t a doll at all) lay unmoving. Its dark hair hung in limp clumps from a bloody scalp. The face—what was left of it—stared glassy-eyed, the mouth caught in a misshapen O of terror.
Most of the left cheek had been dissolved. There was skull bone beneath.

Dave grabbed two more instruments and threw them in opposite directions. When they landed, two parts of the black split off and one each went in the direction of an instrument.

When the divided portions of the ink were finished, they pulled back from the instruments and merged in the middle of the lawn. Dave could see the corrosion of the metal even from where they stood. The inkiness, whatever it was, had dissolved it.

He exchanged glances with Cheryl. “It can hear or smell, maybe. Or feel vibrations in the ground. Either way, the grass is out.”

“Are we safe here? What happens if it swarms the patio?” Cheryl gave him a worried look.

Sally flopped down on the tiles. “Don’t feed the bears.” She ran a gentle finger along one of the blades of grass, and drew it away covered in blood. Dave pulled her to her feet. Three red drops fell into the grass and another two fell on the tiles. The ink swam through the grass and enveloped the blood there. Dave pulled Sally away from the edge of the grass, his heart picking up speed.

The inkiness didn’t acknowledge the blood on the tiles at all. It merged with the rest of the black out in the center of the lawn.

“Guess that answers my question.” Cheryl tried to smile, but it looked more like she was trying not to cry.

“No door to the house.”

They turned to Erik, who was feeling along the outer wall. “Whatever we came through, it’s gone now. And it looks like the fence disappears around
the side of the house. Not on this side, but down that end.” He pointed. “But there’s a big strip of grass between the fence and the house, maybe too big, seeing as how that stuff moves so fast. I don’t see anything we can lay across like a bridge down the far end there, but if we could scale the length of the fence, I saw a gate on the other side.” He jerked a thumb at the corner of the house behind him as he walked back to them. It met the fence exactly.

“Sounds dangerous,” Cheryl said.

“We don’t have much of a choice.” DeMarco holstered her gun. “We can’t stay here. No sense in us all going. Let me go first, and I’ll holler back if it’s safe to follow.”

“But how will we get Sally across? I don’t think she’s in much shape for climbing.”

“We’ll have to get her to try.” DeMarco walked over to the fence. Dave followed until they were just out of earshot of the others.

“I think I should go,” Dave said. He heard his voice saying words but he felt detached, like he was hearing a dream version of himself.

DeMarco cocked an eyebrow. “Spare me the machismo, Dave. I appreciate the thought, but—”

“I’m too restless. I can’t wait here. Frankly, they’re all making me too jittery. I’d welcome the time alone.”

“You really want to go?”

“Yeah.” Dave forced an easy smile.

“On one condition,” she replied, staring hard into his eyes.

“What?”